yeah I got heartbreak that I reminisce about
Spice had vanished hours ago into the high thermals, her pale wings cutting against the clouds as she kept her lonely vigil for dragons. Flora hadn’t minded. The stillness here had been good, the emptiness comforting in its own way, and she’d convinced herself the strange swishing she was hearing was nothing more than the mountains playing tricks with sound. It was easy to believe when she was stretched out among petals big enough to swallow her whole, sweater soft against her skin, the horizon a painted dream.
Then the word comes, and it's not just her name, but that one syllable drawn only ever spoke by Kaisel, familiar as a fingerprint. It strikes her chest harder than any blade, makes her heart stumble into a gallop that shakes her bones. Had he said anything else, the instinct might have been a dagger in her palm, reflex and fury flung at the intruder. Instead, the weapon is only her stare, sharp as she jolts upright.
Her hair is in a careless knot, curls springing loose in every direction, her face stripped bare of any makeup, because, well, she'd been up here alone. The suddenness of his voice, his presence, leaves her disarmed in a way that feels wildly unfair. A thousand things unravel at once in her head: shock that he’s here, the whiplash of being certain she was alone, confusion that knots with the smallest dangerous thread of delight she tries to crush immediately, followed hard by the bruise of hurt that blossoms into anger, her oldest armour.
"Wh—?" The sound cracks from her lips before she can stop it, raw and unsteady. Her eyes dart wide, scanning the endless sweep of flowers as if a second ship might be parked among them, some explanation for the impossibility of him standing there. But there’s nothing, just her, the Sugartide, and him. Her voice steadies only in the sharpness of its edge as she demands, "How the fuck are you here?"
Then the word comes, and it's not just her name, but that one syllable drawn only ever spoke by Kaisel, familiar as a fingerprint. It strikes her chest harder than any blade, makes her heart stumble into a gallop that shakes her bones. Had he said anything else, the instinct might have been a dagger in her palm, reflex and fury flung at the intruder. Instead, the weapon is only her stare, sharp as she jolts upright.
Her hair is in a careless knot, curls springing loose in every direction, her face stripped bare of any makeup, because, well, she'd been up here alone. The suddenness of his voice, his presence, leaves her disarmed in a way that feels wildly unfair. A thousand things unravel at once in her head: shock that he’s here, the whiplash of being certain she was alone, confusion that knots with the smallest dangerous thread of delight she tries to crush immediately, followed hard by the bruise of hurt that blossoms into anger, her oldest armour.
"Wh—?" The sound cracks from her lips before she can stop it, raw and unsteady. Her eyes dart wide, scanning the endless sweep of flowers as if a second ship might be parked among them, some explanation for the impossibility of him standing there. But there’s nothing, just her, the Sugartide, and him. Her voice steadies only in the sharpness of its edge as she demands, "How the fuck are you here?"
real big things I still gotta figure out
